The Director's Dream
by Flying Fisher
Summary: Ever wondered about the origins of the flock? The origins of Itex? The past that has been left unuttered? There are two sides to every tale. Remember that evil is in the eye of the beholder. Rated T for safety.
1. Dream of Peace

**A/N :** YAY! First Story! I've been browsing around Fan Fiction for ages, yet I can't seem to find any stories that deal with the past - and I mean the ancient past - of Maximum Ride. So, I made one of my own. Just remember, that evil depends on your point of view. Hitler didn't go out and think "I've got to be evil, make everyone hate me, mwa ha ha ha!" - he thought that he was doing the right thing. Anyway, onto the story!

**Disclaimer:** No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I owneth not the characters used in this story (if you can guess who they are!). James Patterson does.

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**PROLOGUE: DREAM OF PEACE**

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Peace. Such a small little word. Such colossal implications.

She stood silently atop the rocks, swaying smoothly in the breeze. The cold, autumn wind flowed softly across the mountain tops, whooshing through the valleys and caressing her gentle, loving young face. Sunlight breaking through the clouds alighted upon her, dancing in her hair, seemingly spun of gold. The peace of the moment was wonderful. To whoever looked on, it would seem as if there truly was nothing to worry about, nothing to plague the mind with doubts – which made this scene all the more amazing.

Like a mask, her face encouraged this myth. Be she be in public or on her own, it was the only thing that anyone ever saw of her, as she strove to lose the sense of loss. Her eyes, steel-grey and hard as agates, gazed out of her skull, a fury burning inside of them. She gazed out across the pure mountains, her refuge from the horror that had descended upon her, gazed out towards the fields of battle, over the rising smoke, so distant that it barely made an impression on the horizon. Though she could not see them, she knew the armies of the dead that waited, crying out in despair.

A single tear trickled down her face, a droplet of water shattering her impeccable façade. Filled with grief overwhelming, with a sadness so deep and heart wrenching, the dam could not take any more; finally, it burst. Only here, in her secret refuge, hidden away from the world, could she acknowledge the pain. Her face twisted with anger and despair, warped by her loss. The mask that she could not remove was cracked by the torrent.

The cold wind grew stronger, threatening to tear her off of the precipice upon which she stood and hurl her down upon the stone daggers that waited below. Oh, how she wished for that, wished that she could make that escape, and leave this life of cold, hard bitterness behind. How she longed for an end to this pain, this complete and utter desolation.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, her wracking sobs subsided. Wrapping herself in her arms, she blocked out the pain, shut it away within the vaults of her mind. She repaired the mask, healed until the crack was barely noticeable. Once again, she covered her face with it, finally feeling the false sense of peace once more.

Peace. There was none of it left in this world. War gripped the nations, as the young battled for elderly Governments, seeking naught but control. Countless thousands died every day. It was a War that nobody could win. How she wished she could stop it.

But she was only one young girl, lost in the midst of a world at war. Peace was something that couldn't be accomplished by the greatest minds in the world – surely she couldn't do anything. Only in her wildest dreams did she even consider that maybe, somehow she would be able to stop it. But she knew that they were only dreams, dreams that would never, could never happen.

She glanced over the edge, to the drop below. Below her, floating on their feathers, a family of hawks soared effortlessly on the wind. The amazing birds did not fight one another, didn't war. They didn't attempt to kill their comrades simply because of disagreements. They were everything that humans were not.

It filled her with a sense of longing, as she wished that she could be with them. Horrid humanity, she felt, had no place for her. Full of wars, death and injustice, she yearned to simply escape. To join herself with these better beings, who did not suffer from the cravings and desires of humanity.

She sighed. Nothing here could she take for granted. But she could still dream. Dream for a better time, a better place, when humanity was more like these wondrous birds. Dream that there would one day be peace.

Stepping away from the edge, she carefully began her trek back. Veiled with a mask of hope, and carrying the seed of a dream, she calmly turned and began the descent to the aftermath in the broken and scarred town of Lendeheim, where her dead awaited her.

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**A/N :** And that is the end of that! Hope you enjoyed it - hopefully it can only get better. Don't forget to review! Yes, it _is_ based (loosely) on Maximum Ride 


	2. Dream of Death Part 1

**A/N: **Here's the next chapter, peoples! I'm borrowing a leaf out of many people's books, and doing it mutli-part (Thankyou to whoever invented this!) Anyways, hope you read, review and enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Characters and the future of this story are property of the Unquestionable, Unconquerable, Secret Ruler of the Lost City of Write-Antis (aka James Patterson). I only own this back-story, Walter Janssen, Anna Schulte and Heinrich Meyer.

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**CHAPTER 1: DREAM OF DEATH (PART 1)**

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Death. An entire person's life, scores of the years of experience and vitality, wiped out in a heartbeat. Destruction is so much simpler than creation. My life crosses into both. I am the creator and the destroyer, the saviour and the devil. Which depends on whose story you're listening to. 

Oftentimes, it is a person's death that determines how they are remembered, no matter how they lived their life. One man's death can have an impact upon the living that determines the fate of the world.

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Have you will ever felt as if you have lost everything in your life, as if all that you have lived for has ceased to exist? As if you're rock, your only constant, has vanished without a trace? 

I have. More than once. However, it is often the first time that leaves you at your weakest, at the bottom of a pit of emotions that threaten to drown you. Especially if there is no one there to guide you through.

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It began like any other day. Dad came home from work, a weary frown upon his face as he glanced at me sitting in my chair. Knitting, like any other 'good girl' of my age should be doing. The same way that no 'good girl' would ever want to learn the skills of running a business. What use would it ever be to them, whether or not they knew how to buy and sell, to barter, to inspire loyalty or increase productivity? They were never going to be doing anything anywhere _near_ that complex, not with their feeble minds and bodies. Pah. Nooo, we were expected to sit home and _knit_. To clean the house, like nobodies, our one true role _caring__ for our husbands_. What a classic load of shit. 

Thankfully, something has changed in this past century. But more on that later.

So there I was, learning to knit under the watchful tutelage of Mrs Schulte, when he comes home, _finally_, his day at work over.

Thankfully my father didn't believe in those unwritten rules that seemed to permeate the town of Lendeheim, although he made it seem to outsiders that he obeyed them. So, to spare him the embarrassment of having a 'rebel' for a daughter, I was forced to 'volunteer' for this charade. Ah, well. It was worth it. I owed him that much, at the least.

As the manager of his own business, he knew more about the marvellous world of trade and industry than anyone else near here. Well, that's what I think. Others may not believe it, but they can keep their opinions to themselves.

So, whilst the majority of other girls awaited their fate, calmly _knitting_ and _cleaning_ away their life, I got the finest education around. Not that I didn't have to knit or clean - I did - but I had other things to do to occupy my time. Of course, most of the cleaning (until a few months ago when I had _come of age_ – another stupid ritual meaning that I need to do more house-work) had been done by Mrs Schulte, who had also served as a nanny during my younger years (Mum had...passed away shortly after my birth. I can't remember much, but I was told that she was a great women – though, like me, a little against the norm), but I still had my share to do.

"Afternoon, Marian," he greeted me, mindful of maintaining 'proper etiquette' whilst Mrs Schulte was still here. A lovely lady, with a heart of pure gold, she was still too set up in the old ways to accept what my father and I had. So, we had to keep her out of the loop. "Anna. I trust that she hasn't been too hard to handle this time," he continued with a chuckle. A laugh? Out of Dad? In front of _others_? I would have though the Sun would turn green before that happened. Obviously I was wrong. Either he'd finally started listening to what I'd told him (fine, _nagged _him about), or something was up. Yes, I know, laughter always makes a good mask - unless it's unatural for you. Nevertheless, I needed to stifle the laugh that grew within me. Our private little joke – don't bother asking.

Mrs Schulte actually giggled out loud. "No, not a problem, Walter. She's been a dear all afternoon." Yep , you heard right. An _entire afternoon_ of sewing, and knitting, and cleaning, and – you get the picture. Thank God it was finally over for the day. Not long from now, Dad and I would be sitting at the table, him speaking, me listening, as we analysed the deals that he had made today, the theories and secrets that made up trade and commerce, in its complex form. It was that Golden Time for which I lived for. The thoughts of Dad's unwarrented chuckle soon fled my mind.

Sometimes, he gave me a challenge to work on during the day – one that takes hours of concentration to work out. In hindsight, the answers are always obvious, but the challenge of the unsolved mystery – of the competition with myself – was amazing.

After a little more small talk, he finally persuaded her to leave. Promising she'd come back tomorrow, she gathered her small bag of sewing materials and tools and left, leaving me and my father alone.

The moment he heard her slam shut the front door, he wrapped me in his monstrous embrace. Like a bear he surrounded me, threatening almost to crack my ribs.

"Dad," I cried, "What's wrong?"

It was so unlike him. Normally, he was Mr Cool, Calm and Collected, often with an air of knowledge about him, and on rare occasions a sense of humour. But now he seemed to be on the verge of breaking down. He'd only just walked through the door minutes ago! I couldn't think about what had done this to him.

"It's over," he all but sobbed. It was like he was reaching for me for support, to his only daughter to strengthen him, the foundation of our small family. "The War. It's over. They're coming for us."

The War? I looked up in surprise. Certainly, this was bad – if the Government didn't surrender soon, we could all be left to rot – but that couldn't be the reason Dad had almost fallen to pieces. We knew the danger, the threat to us was remote at best – and we'd have weeks of warning if we needed to evacuate. There was something deeper buried here

"Dad," I probed, guiding him to the couch, "What's wrong? Tell me, has-"

"Heinrich!" he interrupted, crying out. "He's dead! When the Allies broke through the trenches, they slaughtered everyone in the nearest border town."

I was shocked to the core. Heinrich Meyer, my Dad's closest childhood – and adulthood – friend had been a solid rock throughout both our lives. Never seen without a smile on his face, the differences between him and my stern father hadn't dented their friendship in the least. His buoyant, bubbling laughter had brought Dad out of despair when Mum died, and he'd been like an uncle to me when I was growing up. He still visited every other weekend. The fact that he was gone was like an assault on my person.

"Oh, Dad." I cried. No longer holding back the tears. I could not tell you how long we wept in each other's arms, but when our grief finally ran dry, we sat there still, not wanting to move for fear that the newly-opened wound would break.

But the sorrow and death did not end there.

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**A/N: **Hope you liked it! PPPPLLLEEEAAASSSEEE REVIEW! I would love to see at least one, hopefully two before I post the next half of this chapter. Ah, well. We don't always get what we want. But still... 


	3. Dream of Death Part 2

**A/N:** Hi guys 'n' gals! The next half of the chapter has arrived. _Please_ review. I'm beggin' you here! Even if it's just to tell me that I've stuffed something up horribly, that you hate the story, you like it, you think it should be burned, improvement, ANYTHING! I'm dyin' out here from lack of reviews (I've got zilch! How can I fix it up if I don't know what's wrong with it?) Ah well. Now, without further ado, presenting Chapter 1.2!

**Disclaimer:** I don' ow'en nufin'

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**CHAPTER 1: DREAM OF DEATH (PART 2)**

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It was nearly dark by the time that we had exhausted one another's tears. Agony still lay beneath the surface of our faces as we leaned into the couch. After the rivulets of water had ran dry, we had continued to embrace one another, feeding off of the strength, gathering support and consolation from our closest friend, from the only family that we had.

Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, inch by inch, we parted, emotionally fatigued and waiting for it to just end. Stifling a sniffle, we stood at arms' length, our pain echoed in each other's eyes. I could not imagine how hard it must have been for Dad, to lose his closest friend – just like that. I was still raw from the experience. Nothing like this had ever happened before, not since Mum had died. That had been horrific – despite my age then, I still vaguely remembered it, and what Dad had done. Heinrich had been there for Dad during that sad time. I knew that I had to be there for him now.

But it was he who took control of the situation, forcing his pent-out grief behind locked walls in an effort to care for _me_.

"Mari, it's OK," he began, trying to console himself as much as me. "It's all right to grieve. But we can't let this destroy our lives. You've got such a bright future ahead of you. With your talent, the possibilities..." He trailed off, his eyes glazing over momentarily before he stopped himself, and threw himself away from that dangerous train of thought.

"I, I, I know Dad," I said shakily. This was the first time that I had ever lost somebody I knew. Except for Mum, but I was so young when it happened that I barely remember her. I was nowhere near as attached. Loss is such a devastating thing. "We have to move on. But still...I loved him." Like a second father

"I did as well. He was a great man, and shall be sorely missed by all." He paused. "Death is a part of life, you know. We all die, even you, even me. Nothing remains the same forever. We have to take it and move on."

In hindsight, I look back and ask _why_. Why were we so naive? Why did we not even consider it as a possibility? The grief that we felt must have stopped our own ability to think. When we should have been making preparations that would serve us, we were bawling our eyes out. Yes, it is to be expected. But still, I would have thought that my father and I would have been stronger than that, strong enough to think it through – at least as a vague possibility – and to prepare.

The warning signs were all there. Dad himself had said that the Allies had broken through, and had...killed...Heinrich near one of the border towns.

How had Dad gotten this information? Obviously someone had escaped, and told someone. But they would have had to travel on foot, stranded as they were. Surely it would have taken at least two days for the news to reach here.

Here. Lendeheim. Less than a three-day forced march from the Allied border. Why, why, _why_ had we been so blind?

They came for us that night.

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The sound of shouting pulled me from my sleep. I awoke with a start, not comprehending anything of what was happening. On the edge of my consciousness, I heard Dad talking at something, at someone.

My sleep-clogged brain unsuccessfully tried to understand. I heard Dad standing there, randomly garbling at something. He'd never sleep-talked before. What was wrong? Sighing, I realised that he must still be in mourning for Heinrich. Understandable, I thought. I had been asking Him the very same questions, just with a quieter voice.

Then suddenly, BANG! The shot rang through the night, silencing the screaming. Quickly, it was followed by another, then another. A barrage of shots barrelled through my consciousness, finally jerking me into full alertness.

I opened my eyes to a red glow that filled the entire room. Gazing though the window, I saw our neighbour's house burning, flames outlined against the ink-black of the night sky. Horror quickly covered my astonishment as my mouth tried to work, moving up and down without sound.

Praying to God that Dad was alright, I rushed into his room. He was there, surprisingly cool given the circumstances. He thrust a backpack into my arms and spoke quickly.

"Marian, listen to me. You've got to go. _Now_. I don't care what happens, as long as you stay safe. Go _up_. No matter what, don't turn back." He paused. "Keep going, and don't turn back."

With that, he embraced me, before thrusting me out the back door. With an uncharacteristic smile and a wave, he silently mouthed 'Good Luck' before disappearing inside.

He knew what's best for me. He always has, always will. Filled with terror and determination, I ran away from the house, glancing back once to see if he was following me. Although I didn't see him, I knew that he would come soon. But he had told me to run, and run I did.

Our property is right next to the mountains. Oftentimes, when I was young, we used to go hiking there, in the high passes. It was our secret place, undisturbed by humanity, and it was where I knew we would meet up.

Before long, I had gained the slope. Here, I paused, my lungs heaving as I caught my breath. Looking back, I realised that I still couldn't see my father. Where was he?

I waited for as long as I could, but saw nothing. Gunshots of the Allied soldiers, screams of the wounded and dying and the crackling of the flames all came together into a cacophony that made it impossible to hear anything else. I continued climbing, desperate to escape the horrors below me.

All of a sudden silence ensued. It all ended, as if muted by a Giant. I paused in my ascent, waited for minutes. He should have been here by now. He could not be that far behind me.

The thought hit me like a brick. No, it could not be possible. But it had to be. He wouldn't have gotten lost. The battle was over, he would have fled, have come here – unless he couldn't. Perhaps he'd been captured...but the Allies were not taking prisoners. They were slaughtering them.

No, not more death. But I knew it to be true. There was no other possibility. I was alone. The knowledge seemed too much to bear.

Isolated, all alone, I turned around and fled far away from the field of battle. With a mask on my face, I ran from the Allied soldiers, seeking a place to hide amongst the mountains, hoping, _praying_ that it had been swift and clean, that he had not suffered. He didn't come for me. Then, I knew that he never would again.

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**A/N:** Hope you liked! Now _PLEASE REVIEW! _I'm pleading you, I'm on my hands and knees here! _PLEASE!_


	4. Dream of Hope

**A/N: **Huzzah! I got a review! Thank you soooo much to Maxridefan for reviewing! It is off reviews that I live. Anyways, hope you enjoy the next chapter. Its what I would call a filler, and it does get a little jumpy time-wise, but I hope you can still comprehend and enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Claimeth I do not.

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**CHAPTER 2: DREAM OF HOPE**

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Hope. A desire for something that may or may not come to happen. A wish for an impossibility, what _we _want to occur despite the odds that say otherwise. Humanity depends upon hope. Without it, we would have no reason, no real desire left to live.

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_With what many herald as the end of the Great War, a surprising counter-offensive by the Allied forces is stretching the limits__ of Germany's Mighty Army. __Barely__ a week ago, a small band of English soldiers crept through no-man's land and were able to deal devastating damage to the civilians in the surrounding area. Despite losses on the front line, patrols were spared so as to find and execute these renegade soldiers. This act, however, was clearly a foreshadowing of the battle to come. Stretched out across a front too long, with nowhere near enough soldiers, the Allies are slowly forcing Germany into submission. This War that has raged on for decades will likely be over within the week._

I had to force myself to stop reading the notice pinned to the town board. A whole list of names, those whom had been identified, was pinned to it beneath the War notice. What was simple literature for some had evolved into a deadly reality for others. Others like me.

It had been barely a week since that horrifying day, the day when _they_ came. The day when all was lost, when the pillar of my life, the lamp of my existence was extinguished. That day that will haunt me for the rest of my life, however long or short _that _may be.

Life. So tangible, the thread of existence so delicate in the hands of others. Indeed, it would have been easy for me to snap it, to escape this hell up on the mountains, to run away from it all. But that would have been the coward's way out. And I am no coward, no matter what others may say.

In the week that had past, Lendeheim had rebuilt itself. The damage to the town was less than it had appeared during the slaughter. The majority of it was superficial – a window shattered here, a line of bullets in the wood here, a burnt outhouse there. Few buildings had sustained permanent damage. _Some _were completely destroyed, but they belonged to a minority of houses.

Certain people hope that the town will be repaired before much time has passed. That the damage sustained will be rectified before too long. Of course, this hope seems to disregard the other losses that we must bear. Those who were, who are no longer here.

It was – mentally I steeled myself – the dead and the wounded who made our losses complete. So many gone, passed away into oblivion, because of a stupid war that, in all reality, has nothing to do with us. A war that should never have started, but instead flourished, stealing the lives of the young, the old, and all in between. Thank God that soon it would be over. The message board said as much. Finally, my hopes and prayers were going to be answered. Unless, of course, our Government could not think rationally at all, unless they had no regard for human life. Which _was _a possibility, I must admit.

At least those soldiers had paid for their actions. Blood had been taken, and blood was given in return. They were all dead. I know. Somehow, I think that I would know if one of them had escaped. At least I had been given revenge for his death –

No – I couldn't think about it. He couldn't be gone. My mind refused to accept the idea, despite logic's attempts at persuading me otherwise. Oftentimes, I would turn around, expecting him to be there before realising that I was alone in our – my – empty house.

It was his presence that I missed the most. Our long, evening chats, him comforting me, our caring for one another, his gentle smile, his pride for him and for me, his excitement when we worked the problem out, his sad countenance, his rare, echoing laughter – everything about him, I missed. It was as if someone had cut off my arm – no, as if someone had burned off my arm, stuck it into the flames until it had melted, the flesh dripping off of the bone, the bone shattering as it was beaten by a mallet. That was less than a hundredth of the pain that I felt. I would have gladly undergone that agony, if he could still be here with me. But he could not.

I can remember that moment, as clearly as if it had been fried into my brain, burned into my retinas. After taking shelter in the mountains for the day, I chanced coming back.

There was no-one around. The silent, crispness of the morning was broken only by the keening of the mountain birds on the wing. A slight breeze blew, tossing my hair into my eyes and forcing me to pull it back into some semblance of neatness.

Nothing moved down there. It was as if someone had frozen time, frozen this moment, but forgotten about me. Slowly, ever so carefully, I descended the path. Soon, I would be there, would find if anything remained, if the Allied soldiers had left anything behind. I didn't have long to find out.

Finally I reached the ground. My house sat there in the distance, barely 300 metres away. I raced there, running as if I could stop it. Hoping against what I already knew to be true in my deepest heart, wishing I could open that door and see Dad, sitting with coffee mug in hand like he did every morning.

I slowed to a stop outside the door. The lock was blasted off, obviously by an Allied bullet. My hopes and dreams seemed to shatter in that instant. Please let him be OK.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I swung open the door, ignoring the hole where the lock used to be. Entering the house, I was completely unprepared for the sight that encountered me.

I, I, I can't speak of it. Not to you. Not to anyone. What I saw is for me and me alone. No-one, and I mean _no-one_, should even hear of such things, let alone see them. Suffice it to say that what I saw was worse than you can imagine, that I now knew the fate of my Dad.

He didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve the horror, the trauma that he went through. I can tell you that he didn't die quickly, easily or painlessly. It looked like he had lived in agony for hours before he had died. The sadistic bastards who did this to him _deserved _the death that came for them.

I was frozen by the sight. I couldn't move, couldn't cry out, couldn't even whimper. Even my tear ducts seemed to have been welded shut. For hours, I just stood there, transfixed by the sight of my dead father. Inside, grief tore me down and made me anew. I know that if someone had stood there with a gun aimed at me, finger on the trigger, I could have done nothing to stop them.

He had accomplished so much in his life. Yet there was still so much more that he could have done. He is – was – a loving, caring parent; he was a close mate to many in the town; he was gentle and kind to all; he respected his enemies and rivals. He gave so much to the world, so much to his company - yet the world gave him back only his death. I hate that war. The only pleasing thing about it would be its end.

We had done so many things together, just the two of us. I remember clearly that day, over a decade ago, when he first asked me my opinions. Not even ten years old, I worked together with him, playing his games. I don't know why I chose ITEX out of the names he gave me. Maybe it just flowed more than the others, rolling off of the tongue. It might have been because it sounded more official. Deep down, though, I think that it may have been because that was the one that he had made up, as opposed to the others made by his colleagues. Yes, that was probably why.

So the name of the company that he founded, ITEX, was decided by a young girl's adoration for her father. How ironic. Little did anyone know what that name would bring in the future.

Dad worked wonders within the trading market, buying, selling or bartering everything that wasn't nailed down. He was a Merchant Prince, without equal in his sphere.

What a life wasted. Wasted by War.

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The door opened with a barely audible cree-eek. Mrs Schulte stood in the doorway, outlined against the blood-red of the setting sun.

"Oh, my God!" she whispered, astonished as she looked on my father's remains. "Heaven protect us." Wide-eyed, her utterance seemed to free me from the stasis that had overcome me. In moments, I had crossed the intervening distance, and collapsed into her arms.

We couldn't speak. Until yesterday, I had never felt loss. Now, I was hit with it full in the face.

Eventually, we submerged our grief and Mrs Schulte called for help. Others came to us, often puking as they came through the door, and helped us to clean up Dad's remains. Though many had died, the Allied devils seemed to have had...more _fun_...with Dad then with anyone else in town.

We had the funeral a few days later. As he had always wished, he was cremated, and his ashes were scattered upon the breeze, flying high into the mountains. There he could live in peace and happiness, watching over all till the end of eternity. The ceremony itself was simple, yet profound. There wasn't a dry eye within sight on that day. As I said, Dad was well respected, and I think that almost everyone in town was in mourning.

Afterwards, tears hidden once again behind the mask, I turned to face my destiny. He'd left it all to me, despite my young age, or my so-called inferior gender. All of it. Our house, all of his positions – even his position at ITEX. Wherever he is now, I will make him proud of me. His life won't have been for naught. I will succeed, even if I have to fight every step of the way. I don't care. He was my Dad, and this is his wish, his desire. I just hope that I will come out of it better than he did, that I won't end up like that. I promise you, Dad, I _will _come through.

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**A/N: **I had tears in my eyes when I was writing this. If it makes you feel half as sad as I did, well...you're feeling sad. Please review - all are welcome, good, bad or indifferent. (By the way - no, I don't hate the Allies, I'm one of them myself (Aussie Aussie Aussie), but that's just the way the story's going. Showing you the other side to more than _one _tale.) 


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